


in tune

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Dean Plays Guitar, Fluff, Gen, Happy Dean, Music, Self-Indulgent Dean, Stanford Era, Young Dean Winchester, celebratingdean, dean deserves good things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 17:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13346040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: One of Dean's first solo hunts leads him to a music store.





	in tune

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week 8 of [Celebrating Dean](http://celebratingdean.tumblr.com) event

Dean hasn’t held a guitar in his hands in years. Almost a decade, in fact. Not since– well, since the last time. Since he had a chance to learn those few chords. Though maybe learned is too big a word. He could place his fingertips right, press the strings down to the fretboard. And when he strummed them, two out of three times it didn’t sound too bad.

He never practiced those chords, never internalized the correct way to spread his fingers along the neck of the guitar. There was never a good opportunity for it. Never a good reason.

“Wanna take her for a spin?”

He tears his eyes off the shining, dark red box of the guitar hanging on the wall to find the source of the voice. There's a woman standing behind the counter, round his age, maybe a bit younger. Her hair is pink and spiky, smile cheeky as she nods at the guitar to clear his confusion.

“Uh, no, that’s not why I’m—”

“Dude—” she stops him. “I saw the way you’ve been staring at her.”

He might have taken a glance, alright. It’s not like there was much to do while he waited in the middle of an empty store. He looked at other guitars on his way up to the counter, he resisted a strong urge to tap on a plate. But he definitely wasn’t staring at anything in particular. And sure as hell he doesn’t want to make an idiot out of himself.

“Nah, I don’t play.”

The woman shrugs. “Even better.”

“How so?”

“It means you don’t yet have a guitar, so you need one.”

Dean chuckles. He wants to say ‘touche,’ except...he really does not need a guitar. He’s got nowhere to put it. Dad wouldn’t appreciate the huge case clattering up the backseat. “Don’t think so. A harmonica, maybe,” he jokes, instead.

“Sure.” She waves at the display she’s leaning on. “They’re here.”

Her A-plus saleswomanship makes him regret he’s gotta be such a tough customer, or rather, that he’s not a customer at all.

“Actually, I’m here on official business,” he says, dropping the casual tone. “I’m writing an article for ‘Rock On’ magazine. I was told I can find Ozzy Welsh here?”

“Oh.” The woman pushes herself off the counter. Her expression grows bored, like she’s heard the story told some two hundred times. “The turntable incident?”

“Yup. So, Ozzy?”

“He’s out on a break, should be back in ten minutes,” she says, peeking at her watch.

“Alright, then I’ll—”

“Go ahead.”

“—wait.”

There’s a silence after that. She’s back with that knowing smirk on. Dean thrusts his hands into jacket pockets.

She casts a quick glance over his shoulder and flips the thumb at the door behind her.

“I’ll be at the back,” she says, never losing the meaningful gaze, before leaving him alone in the store, again.

He only resists for ten seconds or so.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbles, laying his jacket down on the bench.

The guitar hangs at his face’s level. He reaches up and grabs its box tightly, slowly pulls it off the rack. He maneuvers it without causing any costly disasters until it sits securely in his lap. It fits there just fine, though its varnished wood presses a little cold against the naked skin of his arm.

He curls his fingers around the neck; the strings give out a faint, metallic sound. Is this thing even tuned? A slow drag of a thumb tells him that…maybe? It doesn’t sound terrible, but a reference point would be nice. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, more out of a reflex than anything — the thick curtain hanging in the back door’s still closed, but he’s sure the shop assistant is keeping an eye on him through the surveillance camera.

He doesn’t want her here, though, he’s got this. Eyes back to the fretboard, fingers on the strings. He slides them up, close to the head, switches them around until something feels right. Sounds right, too, he’s pretty sure. He gives it a few more strikes for good measure, letting a small, complacent smile play on his lips.

Another chord’s a little bit tougher to find. He presses the strings with three fingers and cringes at the dissonance that comes out of the instrument. He tries ‘til he’s got it. Then another one, then another. Somehow it’s easier than it was back then when he mimicked Robin’s gestures. His fingers are stronger now, rougher. The sounds each come out clear and vibrant.

His smile grows into a full-blown grin. Almost a decade, yet he’s not that entirely rusty. Maybe Robin did manage to teach him some chords, after all.

Such a shame they didn’t get enough time to move to jamming AC/DC or Metallica. Or even Mary Had a Little Lamb. They never got much time for anything, did they? Best he can do with what he’s got is strumming the guitar to a made up beat, letting the hummed melody do the rest. He closes his eyes, purses his lips and gives in to the tiny fantasy.

He gives out a small roar, as he angles the guitar up and pick slides for the thrilling finale of his number one hit. The only thing that’s missing is the applause. Thank fuck. He lets out a quick, embarrassed chuckle. But it’s not like anyone saw him. Except for the shop assistant, that is. Yeah, it’s probably for the better that he can’t get a guitar. Not with dad and constant moving and the thin walls of the motel rooms.

A little bit of shame, too, though.

But hey, maybe one day.  



End file.
